The Honest Answer

I have a little calendar in my classroom.  Its actually a piece of paper with 10 tiny months printed on it, with little day-sized checks spanning from exactly August 20 to March 24.  

Today we have been here 7 months.  

When we first touched down on the island of Kosrae, everything was brand new and exciting.  I wanted to blog about EVERYTHING.  

"Oh my goodness, the ocean was so warm!  I MUST BLOG."

"Great glory, breadfruit tastes like unsalted play-dough! I MUST BLOG."

"There was a sunset!  I MUST BLOG."

Back then I was a pre-packaged SM sent straight from the wealthy and abundant lands of America, tailored to perfection by the SM department and their community.  I came plowing into Kosrae, toting my little camera and soaking in the culture with the thought "Boy, just wait till the folks back at home here about this!" running through my head all the time.

I see myself now as a tan/burnt dude who goes to eat a care-package pop tart, and decides that its too much work to brush off the ants before taking a bite.

The other day I was skyping my girlfriend Haley Coon, and she asked me the question that I have been terrified to answer.  

"Riv, do you think you have changed at all while you have been there?"

I swallowed.  I could give an "SM" answer, which would go something like this:

Yeah, of course I have.  I have really felt God working in my life to give something back to these locals who don't have anything, but still have happiness.  I've built three churches and started a sabbath school and converted 348 people to Christ and built a well for a village without water and found peace and happiness and realized how we take so much for granted back in the States.  I think I'll probably be a missionary for the rest of my life.

Or I could give my honest answer:

"I don't know."

Maybe as a current SM, I see people come back with these great colorful miracle stories, and can see that dreamy, faraway look in their eyes when you assume they are recalling the hardships they endured back in the wild country of who-knows-where.  And here I am, eating pop-tarts with ants on them.  I had always hoped to develop a legitimate "faraway look" from my SM experience, but maybe that comes later.  Maybe I will see the miracle stories after the fact.  

But after some time to think about Haley's question, here are some little things I can come up with:

1. I go barefoot much more often.  

2. Church services don't seem as long as they used to.

3. I started to like breadfruit.

4. Ants and termites are part of the meal.

5. I can hold about a 6 second conversation in Kosraen.

6. I know how to bake bread.

7. The ocean under the stars never ceases to amaze me.

8. I CAN live without Panda Express (barely).

9. I learned how to say yes to things I didn't want to do.

10. I learned how to say no to things I didn't want to do.

11. I like the taste of lentils now.

12. I've learned that even people living on a tropical paradise have struggles in their lives.

13. I've learned that there are different ways of doing the same thing, and they both work.

14. I can climb a coconut tree.

15. I've started to enjoy the race of trying to finish my potluck plate before getting demanded to go get more food.

16. I'm starting to become a morning person.

17. Swimming in the ocean still scares me a little.

18. I still can't fold a fitted sheet my myself.

19. I've learned that life is delicate.

20. I don't know if I'll be able to eat a meal at home without a side of rice.

21. A cold shower doesn't phase me anymore.

22. I'm starting to learn that God displays beauty all around us, whether we stop and notice it or not.

In about two months, I'll be touching down at the Spokane airport at exactly 8:57 PM on a Friday night.  

Then unpack, pack, summer camp, unpack, pack, Portland nursing school for two years, then real life.

Ugh.

I was reading a wonderful book called African Rice Heart written by Emily Wilkens, a fellow Spokanite and good friend of our family.  Her closing words from the last chapter described her feelings finally touching down back into real life traveling back from Chad, Africa.  She spoke of the feeling of the fast-pace American lifestyle being paraded in front of her as she flew back across the U.S., and sure enough when she landed, everything shook.  

Honestly, I'm kind of terrified of this.  Will I be so different that I can't adapt back into my old life?  Or will I be disappointed at the lack of change I discovered in myself upon returning?  What if I get so overwhelmed by the stress of my new life that I am scrambling to buy the first ticket back to Kosrae?

I have found that the only way to escape these thoughts is to not think of them.  Enjoying the tiny, everyday pleasures have begin to grow into my funny little memorable moments of Kosrae, shaping me and building my little "Kosrae Portfolio" in my memory box.  And on those cold winter nights, I will sit in a warm chair and pull out this little portfolio from my mind and flip through stories and photographs, remembering the grand tales and experiences that seemed so small at the time.  

The gap between March 24 and May 30 is getting smaller everyday, and my memory-box portfolio still has plenty more space.  And if everything does shake when I touchdown at home, that memory box is strapped in nice and tight up there in the attic.

Peace from the tropics,

River

The Case of the Flying Soursop

We have a problem.

For some reason, between the three of us, we can't handle even eating ONE fresh fruit sitting on our counter. 

"Oh, we'll eat it tomorrow, its not ripe yet."

Tomorrow: "We should have eaten this yesterday, its overripe."

This time we let a soursop go bad.  Soursops are green, spiky fruits that taste like sour candy from the gods.  But this one was definitely overripe, and had developed a nice skin of black mush.  Taking it outside, we intended to chuck it in the jungle.

"Teecha."

Little Mitchigo suddenly comes out of nowhere.  An evil little "grinchy" though entered my mind.

"Hey Mitchigo!  Want a soursop?"

She thought for a moment.  "Yes."

She held her arms out in front of her as if she were going to catch a teddy bear.  Standing about 20 feet away, I gently lobbed the soursop in the air, watching the mushy fruit travel down towards the waiting arms of Mitchigo.  And then, as if in slow motion, the soursop made contact.

SPLOOSH.

Arms still extended in front of her, the soursop exploded on contact, sending juicy bits of fruit all over her frontside.  Her brother was nearly rolling on the ground, laughing with delight.  Without even blinking an eye, Mitchigo does an about-face and heads straight for the water faucet. 

I ran after her, feeling a bit bad now.  

I stood at the water faucet and apologized, and noticed she was trying to hide her face.  Oh no.  Did I make her cry?  

Feeling horrible now, I tried to strengthen my apology.  She turned off the water, and slowly uncovered her face.  Turning her head my direction, a sly little smile cracked on her face.

"I'm going to tell on you."

She gave a creepy little laugh and ran off to join her brother.  I have yet to receive my punishment from who ever she told on me with.  

A day in the life,

River Davis

The Feast

Kosreans love to feast.

They all have this built-in genetic radar that allows them to simply "know" when a feast must happen.


"Boys, there is a feast tonight.  Please come and join us!"

"Sure!  What time should we come?"

"Tonight!"

"Yes, but what time tonight?"

"Um, around dinnertime."

"....dinnertime?  What time is dinnertime?"

"Oh, its tonight!"

We have also grown accustom to the absence of time here.  When the feast is "tonight", it simply means that they will start whenever enough people show up.  I baked some banana bread using some bananas that were given to me on my way home from fishing and tried to coax the oven to bake faster.  Thinking we would be late to the feast, we walked down the muddy road to Ben Cooper's house.  We knocked on the door, and saw that the house was mostly empty.  Oh no, did we miss it?  I looked at my watch.  7:00 pm.  Its definitely "tonight".  

"Akaywoh!" Mama Sepe comes out from the house.  "You are too early!"

Ah, of course.  Too early.

Feeling foolish that we tried to show up on time to a Kosraen event, I walked under the tin roof of Mitchigo's shack.  Her mom was frying chicken over a fire, and some babies were playing in the dirt next to her.  Chickens clucked around the structure, picking bugs and bits of food scraps off of the muddy ground.  Mitchigo was playing with some marbles, watching her mother cook.

I plopped down beside her.  Pulling out my iPod, I took a picture of the scene, thinking it was rather "local".  Mitchigo instantly was drawn to the glowing screen like a magnet.  She leaned in and whispered bashfully.

"Teecha, um....do you...what....do you have any...games?"

I looked around, feeling guilty about potentially spoiling the local primitive environment around me.

"Um, I don't know.....fine.  We can play ONE game," I agreed.  I pulled up "Hill Climb", a game where you have to drive a little cartoon jeep over bumps without crashing.  Mitchigo got her game face on, and concentrated with amazing focus.  When her little jeep crashed, she squealed.

It was then I felt a presence.

Looking behind me, I found there to be a whole stack of locals peeking over our shoulders at the game.

"Can I try?"
"Can I try?"
"Can I try?"
"Can I try?"
"Can I try?"

I quickly "closed up shop" and put my iPod back in my pocket.  Time to be local again.


"Lets go eat!" Mitchigo decided.  She grabbed my hand and towed me into the house where there was a long table laden with bowls and dishes and platters of Kosraen delicacies.  I saw bins and bins of rice, fried fish, sashimi, boiled breadfruit, tapioca, fried chicken, boiled tuna soup, pickled papaya, chicken curry, spicy rice noodles, cucumber salad, banana bread, sushi rolls, sweet rolls, pound cake, and fresh coconuts with straws in them, ready to drink.  The room was absent of furniture, so we took our place on the cool tile floor.  Sizzling and clattering accompanied the chatter of gossip from the kitchen as the women prepared the last of the meal.  One by one people arrived, climbing through the doors and windows and coming out of seemingly nowhere.  Ryan begins to get tickle-attacked by some of our students, and Mitchigo and I watch with great pleasure as Ryan is submersed in crazy children.

Finally, one of the elders spoke in Kosraen.

"Missionaries, you go first," he announced afterwards in English.
We finally gave in and grabbed out plates.  With kids filing behind us in line, I loaded my plate three layers high with the delicious food.  I ate and ate and ate, drinking my coconut intermittently.  When the bottom of my plate finally appeared, Rolingson calls out to me.

"River, why did you stop eating?  Get some more!"

I took a deep breath.  I went in for round two, as to not be outdone by the Kosraens.  When I was so full I thought I was going to explode, I stepped outside of the house for a moment to feel the fresh air.

The scene was marvelous.  To my right, I could hear the waves breaking far out on the reef.  The tide gently splashed against the rocks beside me and the stars began to come out.  The rumble of the sea mixed with the festive laughter of the feast, and the light danced from the windows onto the roots of the tangerine trees outside.

I smiled.  I pictured myself zoomed out on the earth.  I saw Kosrae as a tiny, dark dot in the middle of the vast Pacific Ocean, but with a tiny light shining out from a window from a certain jubilant feast.  I imagined hearing the laughter and chatter traveling over the dark waters to distant shores, mixing with the laughter and chatter of Pohnpei and Majuro and Australia and Japan and the Philippines and Peru and America.





It sometimes seems there is little that connects us on this big, lonely planet.  But that night I realized that some things remain.  Radiant joy is universal, no matter if you are Kosraen or American or Japanese or Iraqi or Bolivian.  These things tie us together, and I feel honored to be a part of it.  It makes me feel like I am home.

The crowd faded, the food disappeared, our bellies were full.  Dodging frogs and potholes on the way home, we said goodnight to the island and let the sound of the waves lull us to sleep.






Joy from the tropics,

River